


Wholly, Completely, and Endlessly

by choirboyharem



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e17 Mandatory Brunch Meeting, Fanart, M/M, Missing Scene, Somnophilia, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 09:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19391491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/choirboyharem
Summary: Before Jerome is moved to the prison cell Jeremiah kept safe and cold just for him, Jeremiah needs to talk to him first. It doesn't matter whether or not Jerome can hear him. Jeremiah just needs to talk to him.





	Wholly, Completely, and Endlessly

**Author's Note:**

> [walks in fifteen minutes late after having not published anything for a month with noncon twincest art and starbucks]

“Do you think that’s strong enough in the meantime?” Ecco asked, tentative.

“Yes.” Jeremiah touched the handcuffs locked around Jerome’s wrists, his fingers slipping down Jerome’s arm. “They're perfect. Right now, anyway. I’ll be transporting him to the cell soon.”

”Soon?”

”I need to frisk him first. Inevitably, he’ll have some kind of weapon on him. When we were children, he kept a switchblade in his sleeve and then another in the waistband of his pants as an emergency.” Jeremiah gazed at Jerome’s body, the limp skeleton between his legs. “Thank you, Ecco.”

Ecco hesitated for a moment, but eventually gave a nod, leaving Jeremiah’s bedroom. Jeremiah let out a tiny sigh of relief.

The dim lighting from the overhead lamps threw Jerome’s features into truly grotesque shadow. The last time he’d seen Jerome’s face, it had looked just like his own behind a TV screen while he helped torment a charity dinner full of donors, including Jeremiah’s highest employer, the miniature billionaire.

This was not what his brother had looked like then. Jerome had the strangest, most repulsive scarification with sunken eyes and a halo around his face and a twisted, pull-apart mouth. Not even he was enough of a masochist to do that to himself. Who had hated him so much? Who had tried to kill him? (Jeremiah wanted to meet them.)

Jerome looked like he should’ve been dead. Jeremiah touched Jerome’s face, tracing his finger over the seam on his cheek.

“You’re a monster,” Jeremiah whispered. “Look at what you’ve become. You sick, sick perverted freak—why would someone do this to you?” he asked, swallowing hard. “Who did this? What made them do this to you?”

Jeremiah brushed his knuckles over Jerome’s cheek. They were still the same, still pale and pink with faint, faded freckles. “At least no one can compare us together now,” he said bitterly. “You remember. I broke my glasses and people mixed us up and I got hit in the face and almost raped in the mouth because I refused to do your chores. That’s what I had to live with. You know, people thought I was capable of the same disgusting violence you were just because we looked the same. That’s a terrible thing to have to live with, Jerome. I got punished just for looking like you.”

Jeremiah pulled back and let a hot, sharp breath escape, trying to steady his hands and his heart. “You never apologized. And you never mentioned me. How could you do that?” he snapped. “How could you pretend that you forgot about me? I was the only one you had! Mom hated you! She hated you because you were a miserable, useless, hateful, angry psychopath and she’d abandoned you because she had to! I was the only one who loved you!” he said, his voice breaking, making him sound years younger than he was. He bit his lip and stared at Jerome’s face. “I wish I could love you.

”I really wish I could,” Jeremiah murmured. “Sometimes. I wish you were normal. I wish you were smarter. Kinder. Not a killer. Not Mom’s killer.” He felt his throat close up and he dipped his head, gritting his teeth.

“You killed _Mom_. She’s dead and it’s your fault! Thanks to you, you’re all I have! Oh, was that the idea? Did you want to be the only family I have? How selfish are you? Who else have you killed? How many people are dead because you’re a self-obsessed zombie who can’t help but ruin everything he touches?” Jeremiah’s voice rose until it was nearly a shout and he had to suffocate something like a sob. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. He didn’t even remember crying over his mother; just that he’d had Ecco find someone who could buy a bottle of scotch and he’d drank the entire thing in a few hours.

“How long did you spend trying to find me, Jerome?” Jeremiah asked after a moment, his voice quiet and even again. “It couldn’t have been easy. Especially not for you. Who did you go through? Did you go to my school? Did you meet any of my professors? I doubt you could’ve understood half of what any of them said; it’s difficult for you to comprehend anything intellectual.” He traced the scar across Jerome’s head, near his hairline. “Do you know what they called me? A _prodigy_. I was that one in a million and I’m going to do such good things for the city you tried to burn.”

Jeremiah’s fingers traveled up and threaded through Jerome’s hair, thick and tattered. “You always said girls would like you best when we grew up,” he muttered. “You know what, I hate looking at my reflection because of you, but I think I at least have a bit of a leg over you now.” Jeremiah licked his lips and tilted his head to the side, twisting a lock of Jerome’s hair around one finger. “Did you ever have any women? Now, that—that makes me sick.”

Jeremiah’s hands smoothed down over the sides of Jerome’s neck, his breathing hot and quick. “Who were they? What did they look like?” He moved forward, the cut of Jerome’s hips sharp underneath him. “Were there any men?”

Jerome was useless, his fingers nearly twisted together as the handcuffs held them in place. His body was heavy and warm, sound asleep. He was entirely at Jeremiah’s mercy. At long, long last, Jeremiah had some level of control over him. He was a body meant to be used as a plaything. This was what he deserved. Jeremiah wanted to string Jerome up and beat him black and blue for turning him into a paranoid, insecure, unstable boy who'd never quite grown into his adult body.

“What did they do to you in Arkham Asylum?” Jeremiah breathed, fingers absentmindedly toying with Jerome’s waistcoat buttons. "Did anyone hurt you? Did anyone touch you? You're young enough. You're pretty enough, or at least you used to be. Did anyone force you onto your knees? Did men take you and use you like a rag doll like you would've done with me if we were old enough? I hope they did. I hope they hurt you and they left you to drip onto a bathroom floor. You were in there for a reason."

Jeremiah twitched, itching underneath his shirt collar. He undid the last of Jerome's buttons. "I need to see you." He tugged Jerome's tie off and flung it away. His shivering fingers pulled at Jerome's trousers, fumbling with the zipper. "What else happened to you? I need to see."

Beneath the neck, aside from a few healed stitches, Jerome looked just like him. The same skin, the same perfect imperfections. This was the true mirror. They were still completely identical, just a flipped canvas. Jeremiah wanted to scratch Jerome's chest and back and stomach and limbs up until he bled just to make sure no one would compare them ever again. Jeremiah's hands kept slipping and trembling as he pulled down Jerome's trousers.

"I don't know why I expected it to look so different," Jeremiah murmured, drawing a line with the tip of his finger along Jerome's soft cock, running it over the pink ridge to the tip of the head. "It's just biology." He curled his fingers around it, his lips parting with a heated breath. He looked back up at Jerome's face, slack and emotionless, scarred, skull-lined eyes closed and peaceful. "Have you ever been kissed? Did anyone ever think to try it while they were being molested or they were molesting you?"

With his free hand, Jeremiah pushed up Jerome's chin and pressed his own lips against the thinned, cracked ones, pink and unnatural. Jeremiah's entire body shuddered and he gripped the back of Jerome's head, pulling at short, cropped hair, kissing him like he was starved. Jeremiah hadn't done this in years. He couldn't even remember the name of the last person he'd kissed. It had been before his graduation, drunken and barely conscious. Physical touch, heat—Jeremiah felt desperate for it, almost gagging. He'd rather have this than emotion. Any kind of emotion. Just touch and taste and feel.

The horror of it, the sheer, unnatural horror of how forbidden it was settled deep inside Jeremiah, twisting out into vines that curled around his bones. Horrible thoughts you weren’t supposed to have about your brother that had been reawakened and shut down in singular late-night hours were all blaring like an emergency broadcast. It wasn’t the compulsion to hurt or kill or abuse, which was something Jeremiah had learned to keep hidden in a bursting pocket the older he got. It was a strange, impossible obsession that had built up in Jeremiah's mind, maybe romanticizing choice happy memories and thinking of a boy who would understand his body and his mind in a way no one else could. Jeremiah had stolen pieces from his twin and recreated a new image, one that wasn't disfigured and hideous from the inside to the outside.

This wasn't normal. This wasn't healthy. But this was all he had. Jerome was probably all he'd ever have, especially now that he'd be a permanent fixture in Jeremiah's home. Saliva dripped from Jeremiah's fingers as he coated Jerome's cock with them, sliding his grip up. Neither of them were good with words. Or, at least, not the words anyone wanted to hear. Jerome was charismatic and loud and intense and he had a sense of humor, a violent chemical rush of a human being, but he preferred to touch and be touched (from what Jeremiah could remember). Jeremiah spoke clinically and sharply, preferring to give people information rather than making any kind of conversation. But as long as he could _touch_. . .

Jeremiah had a bit of a difficult time with his own clothes, kicking his slacks and shoes off, giving up on his useless, nervous hands. Too hasty. This was going to hurt. And Jeremiah didn’t care.

He sucked on his fingers, imagining Jerome doing it for him, how a pink tongue would look wrapping around them behind a sneer. Jeremiah lifted his own hips up, his other hand flat on the mattress. He pushed his fingers inside himself, hissing and swearing at the stretch and the burn of it, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t done this to himself in a long time.

If Jerome was awake, he’d be the one with his fingers inside Jeremiah. He’d be above Jeremiah, loosening him up. There would be sloppy, angry, bloody kisses, biting at lips and licking the inside of each other’s mouths. They wouldn’t be nice to each other. It would be like a family reunion at a funeral: misery and distrust and hatred surrounding their get-together, making them hopeless and covering them in black. Jeremiah would lick the blood off Jerome’s chin before it dripped off.

Jeremiah’s hips jolted and he whimpered. It still didn’t feel right, not yet, but managing to strike a sensitive place made it a little better. He sat on his knuckles, his body protesting, his cock twitching against his thigh. When he moved his hips, fucking himself on his hand, Jeremiah panted, saliva welling near the tip of his tongue and dripping down.

At his worst moments, Jeremiah was as disgusting as his brother, but he’d never had the courage to make other people suffer because of it. He only tortured himself.

The tightness was slowly giving way and relaxing. His glasses slipping down his nose, Jeremiah looked back up at Jerome, who made a soft noise in his sleep, mouth moving so subtly Jeremiah almost missed it. The thrill from the idea of Jerome waking up, helpless to do anything but watch as Jeremiah stole his autonomy from him, was a rush intense enough to make Jeremiah dizzy.

Jeremiah pulled his fingers back out, too sickly horny and impatient. He spat on Jerome’s cock and dragged his hand over it to the base, forcing precum from the tip. Jeremiah slid his finger across the slit and sucked the slick bead off his skin, delirious in how horrifying this was. He’d never done anything like this. He never would again, he promised himself. Never once.

It had been a very long time. A very long time since he’d done anything with anyone and a very, very long time since he’d seen his brother. The grinning, malicious, softer face, eyes hard and sharp and alight with a secret only he knew, a gap in his teeth after losing one and then saving it because he liked dead things, were all gone and replaced with a nauseating Frankenstein’s monster. The only thing Jeremiah could see in Jerome that seemed the same as it had when they were ten years old was the choppy red hair, looking like when Jerome had fought with their mother and cut his own hair out of spite. Jeremiah touched Jerome’s hair again, delving his fingers into it, pressing his lips to Jerome’s forehead as he trembled and sank down onto Jerome’s cock.

It hurt, of course. Jeremiah had to take more than a second to recover, fingers clenching in Jerome’s hair, his other hand grabbing Jerome’s jacket. His breathing was heavy and he was torn in two. He let out a sob, muffled by Jerome’s shoulder as he buried his face in it. It was miserable, it didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel good, but Jeremiah sort of felt as though he deserved that a bit more. He wasn’t supposed to like this. God was punishing him, as He should. Jeremiah understood his sin. He suffered for it while he was committing it.

When he finally had the courage to move, the waiting still didn’t make it much easier on him. Jeremiah clenched his teeth and felt his ribcage shudder. He was white-knuckled from the death grip he had on Jerome. He carefully rolled his hips, his groans swallowed by the dampened fabric of Jerome’s jacket. Jeremiah wanted to tear Jerome’s clothes to shreds. (Since when had he learned how to dress, anyway?) Jeremiah’s fingernails scraped down one sleeve, trying to keep himself as quiet as he could. He was his only audience and he knew the pills he’d pushed down Jerome’s throat wouldn’t wear off so easily, but he still didn’t like to listen to himself.

His hips began to snap. Every movement made it easier. Underneath the shirt and jacket he hadn’t pulled off out of impatience, Jeremiah could feel sweat roll down his spine and soak into his clothes, sticking them fast. He took in everything he could, grinding down against Jerome, feeling full, so deliciously full that he could cry. He wanted Jerome awake so badly, to have him gagged next time, unable to speak and still restrained, writhing and fighting, eyes bright with the threat of violence. Glittering and green, trying to read Jeremiah the way he always had when they were young. Trying to figure out what would hurt him the most. How to twist Jeremiah’s arm just right to make him scream.

“I want you to hurt me,” Jeremiah gasped after lifting his head, hot, short breaths escaping his mouth. “Give me an excuse, you bastard. Fucking take me and hurt me. Abuse me.” He punctuated his sentence with a moan, his body shaking when he found the angle he was looking for. It made him forget his pain, one of his hands reaching down to squeeze around his cock, taking some of the edge off. His fingers pushed slippery, hot precum down over himself, trying to make it less rough. He was going to leave himself beaten and bruised at this rate, a lovely picture that Jerome wouldn’t see unless Jeremiah allowed him to.

That was going to get him off more than anything. It sent glorious thrills through him, the idea of such control, all within the touch of a few fingertips on a control panel. All behind a camera, everpresent, but never seen. A watchful, neverending eye, analyzing and picking apart his experiment piece by piece. A piece of hair in a jar. A blood sample in a vial. A psychological experiment, doing brain scans, toying with Jerome’s Hollywood mansion of a brain until he was broken and Jeremiah could finally understand what made him the way he was. Jerome _belonged_ to him now, wholly, completely, and endlessly, and no one could take that away from him. Maybe that was something like love. Jeremiah stroked his cock as skin hit skin, his choked-off noises desperate and messy.

He swore and bit down on Jerome’s jacket when he came, shutting himself up before he could whimper and cry. His movements stuttered as he spilled over his hand and his front, effectively ruining his shirt and hating himself for it. Almost lazily, twitching with oversensitivity, he rocked his hips over his brother’s cock once, twice, trying to lull the monster in his chest to sleep.

Jeremiah was still twitching when he climbed off Jerome, wincing and sucking in a breath between his teeth. He was going to ache later. It was going to feel awful. It would remind him of what he’d done for hours and hours as he kept careful watch over Jerome inside the cold cell. And Jerome wouldn’t know.

He’d never know. And he’d never know anything Jeremiah didn’t want him to know.

Jeremiah sighed softly and pressed his lips to Jerome’s, soft and lingering.

“I did love you, I think,” he murmured, touching his nose to Jerome’s. “A long, long time ago. Before you ruined my life. You’ll just have to earn that back.”


End file.
